was still safe. Cnut enriched the Cathedral with a mass of gold and
silver and of jewels, the brilliance of which “frightened strangers.”
His own crown, either in his lifetime, or more probably after his body
had lain in State before the high altar, was placed on the head of the
Saviour, on the Cross which stood here. He gave a splendid shrine for
Birinus, and a silver candelabrum with six branches. A magnificent
golden cross, two large images of gold and silver, and shrines for
relics were also bestowed.[65] Much of this munificence was suggested
by his queen, Emma, who was a devotee.[66] She had Alwyn, a relation
of her own, made Bishop of Winchester. Perhaps her partiality for
this monastery caused some jealousy, for after her son, Edward the
Confessor, had been crowned here in 1042, she was accused of being
improperly familiar with the bishop, of consenting to the death of her
son, Alfred and of opposing Edward’s accession. The King himself came
down here in disguise to watch her, and soon her treasury in Winchester
was seized, and she was compelled to retire to the convent of Wherwell.
We are told that she felt greatly her reduced circumstances, “because
the worst part of poverty was that it made people contemptible.” A
memorable, if not legendary, scene is now recorded by Rudborne. “Emma
the Lady,” once the “Flower of Normandy,” demands to have her innocence
tried by walking over red-hot ploughshares. The day draws near. She
spends the night in prayers and tears, and in visiting the tomb of St.
Swithun: the saint bids her be of good courage. Next morning a crowd
of clergy and laity collect in the Cathedral; the King is in his State
robes. Nine dreadful red-hot ploughshares are brought forth. The Queen
advances and addresses the King. “My lord and son, I, Emma, that bore
you, accused before you of crimes against you and Alfred, my son, and
of base conduct with Alwyn the bishop, call God to witness in my person
whether I have had in my mind any of these things attributed to me.”
She then throws off her outer robe and takes off her shoes. A tremor of
terror passes through the vast multitude, and the cry rends the air,
“St. Swithun, save her!” Rudborne does not minimize it; he says that
it was so loud that the saint must have come then or never. “Heaven
suffers violence, and St. Swithun is dragged down by force”--such are
his words. Thus encouraged, the Queen advances between two bishops,
and walks over the ploughshares, with her eyes turned towards heaven,
exclaiming, “God, who delivered Susannah from the wicked old men, and
the boys from the furnace, deliver me, for the sake of St. Swithun.”
She seemed to be walking “on roses,” and so little did she feel the
fire that when all was over she asked when the trial was to begin!
[Sidenote: Ordeal by Fire.]
We cannot spoil the prettiest picture in Winchester’s history by a
suggestion of falsehood or over-colouring. One of the ploughshares is
said to have been afterwards found; and, as to the feat, there was no
difficulty, for was she not treading on ground radiant with miracles?
Under the Conqueror and Rufus the Cathedral was rebuilt, with the
exception of the tower, by his kinsman, Walkelin. This bishop was an
estimable man, and possessed such an unusual disposition that, although
ascetic himself, he was tolerant to others. Never was he known to speak
a harsh word, and, it is said, that he loved the monks “as if they were
divinities.” The man who built this great edifice, and much of whose
work still remains, neither ate fish nor flesh.
“The vegetarians ought to be proud of him,” observed Mr. Hertford.
“And the teetotalers,” I continued, “will be glad to hear that he very
seldom touched wine or beer. His end was sad. Rufus demanded £200
from him, and he knowing that he could not obtain that sum without
oppressing the poor or despoiling the Church, prayed that he might
die; and we are told that ten days afterwards his prayer was granted,
but we hear no details about it. His brother Simeon, at one time prior
here, was of an equally genial disposition. Being shocked at the sight
of the monks devouring meat on the fast days, he ordered some fish to
be exquisitely cooked and set before them. The brethren relished the
dish so much that they said they never wished to eat meat any more, and
by this savoury device the worthy prior enabled them to indulge their
appetites without endangering their souls.”
How it must have grieved the soul of Walkelin to be associated with
such a creature as Ralph Flambard, who was a contrast to him in
everything! When the King went abroad the entire government of the
country was committed to these two opposing spirits. Flambard was
unscrupulous and ingenious, and but for the injury done to religion
there would seem to have been something almost comic in his career.
Rufus, whose chaplain he was, never tired of heaping promotion upon one
as unprincipled as himself. He was made Abbot of Hyde at Winchester,
Bishop of Chichester, and Bishop of Lincoln. Many of the churches under
his supervision were without priests or ministrations, and such were
his exactions from rich and poor that they “did not care whether they
were dead or alive.” This genius was thrown into prison by Henry I.
when he came to the throne, but was too slippery for him: soon made his
escape, and was over in Normandy abetting Duke Robert, who had a right
to the English crown, and managing affairs so skilfully that upon a
temporary reconciliation between the brothers, Flambard was received
back and made Bishop of Durham.
[Sidenote: Scandals.]
A few years later the bishop’s misdoings became so notorious that
reports of them reached Rome, and the Pope’s legate, John de Crema,
was directed to visit the diocese and make inquiries. Flambard was
equal to the occasion. He received the legate with great ceremony, and
entertained him at a sumptuous banquet. While the bowl was flowing,
he introduced him to his niece, whom he instructed to do her best to
captivate him. John, who it seems had not the gifts of St. Anthony, was
soon “with love and wine at once oppressed,” fell into the trap, and
finally arranged with the fair deceiver to come to his room. She kept
her promise only too faithfully. But scarcely had she entered when in
rushed the bishop with a crowd of priests and acolytes carrying lamps
and goblets, and calling out “Benedicite, benedicite! we congratulate
you on your marriage--drink--we drink your health!” The legate was
overwhelmed with confusion. Before daybreak he was up and off on his
way to Rome leaving the gay bishop and his peccadilloes to take care of
themselves.[67]
The history of this Cathedral has not been entirely one of peace. In
1188 armed men were brought into it, who, at the instigation of certain
nobles, “not afraid to lift their hands against God’s anointed, dragged
forth some of God’s servants.” In 1274, Andrew, Prior of Winchester,
came here with a body of armed men. Sentinels were placed by the
bishop to prevent their entering, and the prior made an attack on the
third day. The bishop called his adherents together, barricaded the
Cathedral, and excommunicated the prior. The King hearing of this
immediately sent down justiciaries, and cooled by terms of imprisonment
the “anger in celestial minds.”
[Sidenote: Construction.]
By the time two hundred and fifty years had elapsed, Walkelin’s
nave had become somewhat dilapidated, and Bishop Edington undertook
its renovation. He built the west porch and one of the westernmost
windows in the south aisle and two in the north. Wykeham carried on
the good work for ten years, till his death in 1404, having commenced
it as a septuagenarian. He finished the south aisle and began the
north, and left 500 marks to glaze the windows. His work was that of
adaptation--pulling down the triforium and casing the pillars. Portions
of the old Norman pillars, then concealed by chapels, can still be seen
near the stairs to the choir.
[Illustration: Wykeham’s Tomb]
The work of construction was finished by Cardinal Beaufort and
Bishop Wayneflete. We now come to a less pleasing subject for
consideration--the work of demolition.
“Thomas did us more harm than Oliver”--such is the saying at
Winchester. Among the spoils which the creatures of the former
catalogued here for Henry VIII., we find:--
“_Imprimus._ The nether part of the high altar being of plate of gold
garnished with stones. The front above being of broidery work and
pearls, and above that a table of images of silver and gilt, garnished
with stones.
“_Item._ Above that altar a great cross and an image of plate of gold.
“_Item._ Behind the high altar, St. Swithun’s shrine, being of plate
of silver and gilt, garnished with stones.
“_Item._ In the body of the Church a great cross and an image of
Christ and Mary and John, being of plate silver, partly gilt.
“The treasures of gold are--
Five crosses garnished with silver.
One pair of candlesticks.
Three chalices--one with stones.
Four Pontifical rings.
Two saints’ arms in plate of gold.[68]
St. Philip’s foot in plate of gold and stones.
A book of the four Evangelists written all with gold and the outer
side of plate of gold.”
[Sidenote: Demolition.]
[Illustration: A Fragment of the Chapter House.]
Bishop Horne, who died in 1580, and was buried near Bishop Edington’s
chantry, was a detrimental reformer. To make himself conspicuous in
taking what appeared to be the winning side he did a great amount
of damage to the Cathedral, not only removing crucifix, images, and
paintings, but actually knocking down the cloisters and chapter-house.
A few arches on the back of the Deanery still remain sad memorials of
these buildings, and of his misdirected zeal.
[Sidenote: Civil War.]
Much damage, but of a more petty character, was done here by the
Roundhead soldiery during the Civil War. In the middle of December,
1642, the city, having been taken by Waller, was pillaged and the
Cathedral doors burst open. “As if they meant to invade God Himself
as well as His profession,” writes Mercurius, “they enter the Church
with colours flying, drums beating, matches fired; and that all might
have their part in so horrid an attempt, some of their troops of horse
also accompanied them in their march, and rode up through the body of
the church and choir until they came to the altar: there they begin
their work, they rudely plucked down the table and break the rail,
and afterwards carried it to an alehouse; they set it on fire, and
in that fire burnt the books of Common Prayer, and all the singing
books belonging to the choir; they throw down the organ and break the
stones of the Old and New Testament, curiously cut out in carved work,
beautified with colours, and set round about the top of the stalls of
the choir; from hence they turn to the monuments of the dead, some they
utterly demolish, others they deface. They begin with Bishop Fox’s
chapel which they utterly deface, they break all the glass windows of
this chapel not because they had any pictures in them, but because they
were of coloured glass, they demolished and overturned the monuments of
Cardinal Beaufort, they deface the monument of William of Wayneflet,
Bishop of Winchester, Lord Chancellor of England, and founder of
Magdalen College, Oxford. From thence they go into Queen Mary’s Chapel,
so called because in it she was married to King Philip of Spain; here
they break the communion table in pieces, and the velvet chair whereon
she sat when she was married.” After speaking of the chests containing
the bones of kings and others, the narrative proceeds: “But these
monsters of men to whom nothing is holy, nothing sacred, did not stick
to profane and violate these cabinets of the dead, and to scatter
their bones all over the pavement of the church; for on the north side
of the choir they threw down the chests wherein were deposited the
bones of the bishops; the like they did to the bones of William Rufus,
of Queen Emma, of Harthacnut, and of Edward the Confessor, and were
going on to practise the same impiety on the bones of all the rest of
the West Saxon kings. But the outcry of the people detesting so great
inhumanity, caused some of their commanders to come in amongst them
and to restrain their madness. Those windows which they could not
reach with their weapons they broke by throwing at them the bones of
kings and saints. They broke off the swords from the brass statues
of James I. and Charles I., which then stood at the entrance to the
choir, breaking also the cross on the globe in the hand of Charles I.,
and hacked and hewed the crown on the head of it, swearing they would
bring him back to his Parliament.... After all this, as if what they
had already done were all too little, they go on in their horrible
wickedness, they seize upon all the communion plate, the Bibles and
service books, rich hangings, large cushions of velvet, all the pulpit
cloths, some whereof were of cloth of silver, some of cloth of gold.
And now, having ransacked the church, and defied God in His own house
and the king in his own statue, having violated the urns of the dead,
having abused the bones and scattered the ashes of deceased monarchs,
bishops, saints, and confessors, they return in triumph bearing their
spoils with them. The troopers (because they were the most conspicuous)
ride through the streets in surplices with such hoods and tippets
as they found, and that they might boast to the world how glorious
a victory they had achieved they hold out their trophies to all
spectators, for the troopers thus clad in the priests’ vestments, rode
carrying Common Prayer books in one hand and some broken organ pipes,
together with the mangled pieces of carved work in the other.”[69]
“The last part of your narrative makes me feel melancholy,” said Miss
Hertford. “Let us go into the fresh air and see the Cathedral which has
survived these Goths and Vandals.”
[Sidenote: The Square.]
We accordingly made our way down the High Street, and proceeded
through the passage by the Butter Cross. Passing through the Square,
we stopped before entering the graveyard to visit Mr. Chalkley’s, the
taxidermist’s--which may be regarded as a kind of “dead-alive” place.
Here are the beautiful remains of natives of many sunny climes. Can we
suppose that such little beings with cherub wings and voices are--
“Denied in heaven the souls they held on earth”?
Opposite we observed the Mechanics Institute, on the site of
which--then at the south side of the Market--there was, until 1790,
an anomalous building--a butchery below, a theatre above. There were
plenty of stalls here, containing, not cushions, but meat, and along
them and at the corners stood strong oaken columns, while hooks for
joints were fastened into the rafters which supported the floor of the
theatre. Warton humorously describes this strange combination--
“Divided only by one flight of stairs
The monarch swaggers and the butcher swears!
Quick the transition when the curtain drops
From meek Monimia’s moans to mutton chops!
While for Lothario’s loss Lavinia cries,
Old women scold and dealers d---- your eyes.
Cleavers and scimitars give blow for blow,
And heroes bleed above and sheep below!
Cow-horns and trumpets mix their martial tones,
Kidneys and kings, mouthing and marrow bones.”
The fashionable patrons of the drama must have been shocked not only
at the sight of the butchers’ business, but also at that of the
iron fastenings of various heights and sizes to hold the hands and
feet of vagrants during flogging, all of which were placed close to
the entrance of the theatre. The cries of suffering culprits would
have formed a discordant accompaniment to the harmonies of the
orchestra.[70]
We now approach the Cathedral, through the avenue of tall lime trees.
Enthusiasts say they were planted by Charles II., and let us hope that
was the case, for he is the last monarch around whom there is any halo
of romance. He had certainly a design to connect the Palace with the
Cathedral by means of an avenue. But the tradition which points to one
of the larger elms on the south side of the Cathedral as having been
planted by his hand, appears to me more credible.
[Sidenote: West Front.]
“What an immense west window,” exclaimed Mr. Hertford. “It seems to
monopolize all the façade and to be out of proportion to the stone-work
around it--a very large picture in a very narrow frame.”
“This was the work of Bishop Edington,” I observed, “begun about 1345.
He did not like the ‘dim religious light’ of the Middle Ages.”
What a different front did the Norman knights here behold; something
as stern and cold as their own iron armour. A vast blank face of
masonry rose before them, broken only by a few plain, round-headed
windows, without even a pane of glass to reflect the setting sun.[71]
There is proof from excavations, and some remains in the wall of the
garden on the south, that some kind of portico was commenced in front
of the present façade, with a tower forty feet square at either end,
but that the work was abandoned a few feet above ground. The interior
was also severe. The pillars indeed were about the same size and height
as those we now see--their Norman terminations still remain under the
roof--and the eight westernmost on the south side have not been even
re-cased, but only slightly chiselled into rounder form. But they
did not originally break into graceful fans upon the vaulting, nor
were there between them lofty arches crowned with ornamental windows.
No; the spaces were occupied by three tiers of low, round arches,
producing a monotonous effect, such as we still see in the transepts.
The vaulting of the side aisles was also low and heavy, supporting the
deep triforium gallery. The whole structure had a Spartan simplicity
and strength characteristic of a rude age. It terminated eastward in
an apse under the place where now glows the stained-glass window of
Bishop Fox.[72]
[Illustration: _In the North Transept._]
Such was the building to which the body of Rufus “dropping blood”
was brought by night in a peasant’s cart, and where it was buried
with little lamentation. Seven years afterwards the great tower fell,
because, as the monks thought, it could not bear to have such a wicked
man buried under it.
[Sidenote: The Nave.]
On entering, the full effect of the great length and height is
felt.[73] We seem to be looking down a lofty avenue in some primeval
forest. This is the most beautiful nave in England or in the world, 250
feet long and 77 feet high. Truly this pile was not raised by the
“lore
Of nicely calculated less or more;”
but by men--
“With a far look in their immortal eyes.”
High in front of us under the eastern gable stands the glorious window
erected by Bishop Fox, in the reign of Henry VII., when the staining of
glass reached a supreme excellence never before or afterwards attained.
It would appear from the fragments in the aisle windows that they were
all at one time coloured, but the Roundheads smashed them, and the
pieces collected were placed in the west window, where they form a sort
of farrago or confusion--an edifying emblem of the destructive results
of revolution.[74]
[Illustration: King James]
On either side just within the main entrance stands the figure of a
king. They have a somewhat Ethiopian appearance and I took them for
the sovereigns of Arabia and Saba. But they really represent the First
James and Charles. They seem to be handling their sceptres in a very
formidable manner, as if they had still Waller’s rabble in front of
them; and we read that they had swords, which were broken off by the
rebels. These figures have a family likeness to that at Charing
Cross, which was by the same man, Le Soeur. They were placed by Charles
I. in front of the rood screen of Inigo Jones. That monarch “of blessed
memory” also moved the organ to the side, so that an uninterrupted view
could be obtained up the Cathedral.
[Sidenote: The Font.]
On the right-hand side stands the celebrated font--a heavy mass of
black basalt, supposed to be Byzantine, and of the same character as
that at East Meon. The figures on it have a little the appearance
of marionettes, and there is, in truth, some unreality about the
representation which records the miracles of St. Nicholas. A monk
has written an account of the events here brought before us--how St.
Nicholas saved three virgins from disgrace, stilled a storm, restored a
sailor to life, healed the sick, and saved three condemned men. Death
itself could not stop the saint’s beneficence, for after his decease
he restored a child who had fallen overboard with a golden cup. Behind
the font on the wall of the north aisle are memorials to two remarkable
women. Miss Austen is still thought by some of the old school to be the
queen of novelists, and the fact that her works are still published
proves their merit.
“I like ‘Pride and Prejudice’ very much,” said Miss Hertford.
The other lady here commemorated, Mrs. Montagu, was a Shakspearian,
lived among the learned and eminent, and founded the Blue Stocking Club.
“I remember well the house she built,” replied Mr. Hertford; “it stood
like a respectable old country house in its garden in Portman Square,
and has been enlarged into Lord Portman’s mansion. She covered her
drawing-room walls with feathers, as Cowper writes:--
“‘The birds put off their every hue
To dress a house for Montagu.’
What a gay May-day the sweeps had with their ribbons, flowers, and
feasting in the good lady’s time! We read on this tablet that she
had ‘the united advantages of beauty, wit, judgment, reputation, and
riches.’”
“What a happy woman!” exclaimed Miss Hertford. “I once heard a girl
asked which she would rather be--handsome, clever, or rich. The
questioner never imagined that any one could be all three.”
Higher up on the same side, near the stairs, is a memorial to Boles,
the Royalist “Collonell of a Ridgment of Foot who did _wounders_ at the
Battle of Edgehill.” No doubt he did, for when finally he was, with
eighty men, surrounded by five thousand rebels in the church at Alton,
he held out for six hours, and after killing six or seven with his own
sword was himself slain with sixty of his men.
“Winchester is rich in monuments,” I said. “It preceded Westminster as
the burial-place of the great and has, with that exception, more human
interest than any other sacred edifice in England.”
[Sidenote: Wykeham’s Chantry.]
On the opposite side of the Nave stands the Chantry of Wykeham, of
great height and beautiful elaboration.[75] It happens by design or
accident that if we supposed our Lord’s body to be lying on the cross
of the original Cathedral, the site of this monument would correspond
with the wound in His side. This was the favourite spot at which
Wykeham prayed when a boy, before an altar to the Virgin; and here he
built his tomb, on which his figure has reposed for nearly five hundred
years, and where it may remain for five hundred more. The good he did
was not destined to be “interred with his bones,” and the line on the
resting-place of Wren, whose truth impresses the reader, might without
impropriety have been also engraved here--
“Si monumentum quæras, circumspice.”
It is the rare privilege of Winchester to have here, face to face in the
Palace and Cathedral, two of the most important works of these great
master builders.
Higher up the nave is the Chantry of Bishop Edington, earlier and less
ornamental than that of Wykeham. He is the prelate who was offered the
Archbishopric of Canterbury and made the shrewd and sportive reply,
“If Canterbury is the higher rank, Winchester is the better manger.”
The date is placed in a fanciful way at the end of the inscription “M
thrice C with LXV and I.”
On the bishop’s vestment there is a curious emblem of a cruciform
shape, called a Fylfot or Suastika. It is stated to signify submission
to the will of God, and to have been a symbol prior to Christianity.
[Sidenote: Tomb of Rufus.]
From this point we wander into the Choir, and admire the tall carved
spires of oak, blackened by the airs of six centuries. A verger turns
up the seats to show us the quaint carvings of an age when humour did
not seem distasteful in churches--here is a pig playing the fiddle,
another chanting, and a third blowing the trumpet. In the centre of the
pavement lies the sphinx of the Cathedral--rude, archaic, enigmatical.
It has been surmised to be the tomb of some royal Saxon, or of
Bishop de Blois. Winchester men continue to swear it is that of
Rufus, who was “buried in the choir,” but that king’s bones seem, from
an inscription on one of the neighbouring coffers, to have been chested
and perched up by Fox. Everything about it is a puzzle. The rebels in
the Civil War broke it open and found a silver chalice, a gold ring,
and pieces of cloth of gold, within it. This has led to the supposition
that De Blois rested here. In 1868 it was again opened, and one of the
vergers told me he had handled the bones, had seen beside them the
arrow-head with which the king was killed, and had remarked what an
excellent set of teeth he possessed. Remains of cloth of gold and other
tissues were discovered, and seven gold Norman braids finely worked, as
we can see in the library, where they are preserved.[76]
[Illustration: The Choir from the Nave.]